


Sail (Guilty, Filthy Soul)

by carrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 00:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrose/pseuds/carrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean collapses during a hunt, Sam and Castiel begin to worry. When it becomes a more and more common occurrence, Dean has to dig deep to get to the source of the problem. What he finds there might make him wish he hadn't. Rated T for now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            It really came out of nowhere; there was no way of stopping it. The terror clutched at his chest and filled his mind until he was on the ground, clutching his own upper arms and trying to make himself as small as possible, willing the threatening blackness from encroaching on the last part of his vision. He shivered violently, the cold air freezing the cold sweat on his chest and his lower back.

            There was something about the demon; the excited malice burning in his eyes, those few extra inches that managed to make him almost tower over him, or maybe it was the clean, sharp blade he held towards Dean; whatever it was, it pulled every last breath from Dean’s chest, making him gasp at the absence. As his vision darkened without his consent, a different pair of legs stood in front of him, a different monster threatened him with strength and coercion. This monster couldn’t be neatly killed with a knife, or simply exorcised, this monster came closer and closer until Dean’s vision cleared and the tears began to stream down his face. As his sight returned, so did the present, banishing the past to where it belonged. Blue eyes were the first thing he was able to make out, the angel’s face inches from his own. Even though he was back in the present, everything was slow, unreal. He could see the angel’s lips slowly moving, trying to get through to him, but silence was the only thing that made it into Dean’s ears. Fingers dug into his arms as Cas tried to get him to respond. Dean wanted to, but he wasn’t sure what he wanted; what the angel was asking for, he couldn’t find his voice. He watched as the angel stood, leaving Dean on the ground, and turned around, his movements slowed by Dean’s sluggish mind. Sam took his place, kneeling beside Dean, as the angel smote the demon that had moments ago been charging him, along with all the other ones in the abandoned warehouse.

            When Castiel was finished, when what felt like _hours_ finally passed, the angel returned to crouch next to Sam, obviously Dean was safe. No demons were left to be afraid of, no threats were present. So Dean knew it was ridiculous that his adrenaline was still pumping higher than it did on most hunts, that he couldn’t seem to hear any of the more and more desperate shouts that kept coming out of Sam and Cas’ mouths. He knew it was ridiculous that he couldn’t close his eyes, that they seemed to be stuck open wide, searching for danger, for the monster from the past, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He was a prisoner in his own flesh, and that’s what really scared him.

            His panic intensified when Cas lifted two fingers towards his forehead, afraid of the dark unconsciousness they would bring. The panic he was sure showed in his face put a pained expression on Cas’ face but it did nothing to make Cas slow his fingers’ already listless pace, and Sam did nothing to keep the angel’s fingertips from lightly touching to his temple. The sharp pang of betrayal was the last feeling that filtered through him before the dimness overcame him.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

            Dean was frighteningly still on the motel room bed, all remnants of what had happened back at the warehouse gone. He finally shifted under the blanket that Cas had laid over him when they’d first deposited him on the bed and Cas’ breath came out in a long relieved sigh. His shoulders were no longer shaking and his face was no longer scrunched up in emotions that Cas could recognize as fear and discomfort. What brought it on, Castiel didn’t know, but he knew that it scared him enough to make his metaphorical blood run cold. Sam was hovering over Dean, his hand fidgeting helplessly as the other pressed a cell phone to his ear. His words didn’t grow any less panicked as he alerted Bobby of the situation and asked for ideas as to what caused the episode, signaling Bobby’s lack of knowledge towards the situation. Cas wanted desperately to do something, to heal Dean from whatever it was that was ailing him. But he didn’t know what was wrong, and in order to heal him he had to know the source of the problem.

 It had been a run-of-the-mill hunt from what he could tell. Castiel had only shown up after Sam had desperately called for him. He’d turned up in time to see Dean drop to the ground and begin cowering on the cement in the fetal position, while a meager demon seemed to be the cause of his fear. Sam was across the room, two demons blocking his access to Dean, no doubt the dilemma that had forced him to call out to Cas. No matter what Castiel said, Dean didn’t respond to him. The only noises that Dean seemed able to produce was a broken “no” and a soft whimpering that worried Cas more than his intense shivering. When Dean’s eyes reopened and he still seemed unable to answer, Cas had left Dean in Sam’s capable hands to take care of the demons that still littered the property. When he was done, he’d put Dean to sleep, wanting to end whatever kind of episode he was having and let Sam drive them all back to their motel room in the Impala.

As soon as Cas had relieved him of his consciousness, Dean’s face had returned to the peaceful expression he tended to wear while asleep, and his body had relaxed so completely that they’d had difficulty getting him to the car. Whatever had overtaken him, it seemed to leech the energy out of his body, and Cas was glad to see him gain it back now. He desperately wanted to stay and be there when Dean woke up, healing him once Dean could clarify what had happened, but he couldn’t justify waiting around when there were things to be done in Heaven. Instead, he contented himself with a promise from Sam to call him as soon as Dean woke before he returned upstairs.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

            When Dean felt the scratchy fabric of the pillow under his cheek, he felt groggy to say the least. He wanted to go back to sleep and stay that way for as long as he could manage. But a prickling on the back of his neck made him turn over and open an eye, sure someone was watching him. As he did so, he nearly fell out of bed, finding Sam sitting on the bed next to him with wide, unblinking eyes staring down at him.

            “Jesus, Sam! You’re as bad as Cas,” he harrumphed, turning over again to bury his face in the pillow.

            “He’s definitely awake, Castiel,” he heard Sam mutter behind him and the flutter of wings quickly followed. He felt Sam’s weight lift from the bed before his brother shook his shoulders lightly. “Get up, Dean.” Sam’s voice sounded relieved, and the curiosity it awoke in Dean was enough to get him to give up on sleep.

            “What’s so damned important that I can’t sleep in a little?” Dean whined, sitting up on the bed in the spot Sam had just vacated. He rubbed at his eyes before looking up at his brother and the angel. They both watched him with interest, their eyes following his movements. Neither man responded to his question. “Am I missing something?” Dean asked as he finally opened his eyes all the way, ignoring the strain the motel bulbs put on them. “You guys are starting to freak me out.”

            “Are you being serious?” Sam finally inquired when Dean started to glare at them.

            “About what?”

            “About what happened last night,” Sam clarified. Dean thought back to the night before, obviously missing something. He conjured up memories of demons and salt rounds but nothing out of the ordinary stuck out to him.

            “What about last night?” he probed, trying to remember something, _anything,_ that would explain their behavior.

            Sam seemed at a loss for words, so Castiel took a few steps toward the bed, “Dean, if you tell me what happened, I can help you.” Cas’ face was earnest and full of pity, and Dean felt a defensive edge claim his jaw. When Cas tried to place a, what he probably figured was comforting, hand on Dean’s shoulder, Dean had had enough. He rolled over the mattress to get up on the other side of the bed, putting a few more feet between him, his brother, and the angel.

            “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he warned. “What are you guys talking about?” Cas’ eyes scrunched in what looked like confusion and Sam finally found his voice, again.

            Sam combed his fingers through his hair, “You really don’t remember? Damn.” Now Dean’s curiosity was definitely piqued and he was getting a little frustrated.

            “What happened?” he almost growled, not trying to hide his impatience. Cas was quiet as he stood beside Sam, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face; almost looking at him like a grenade that had yet to detonate.

            Sam took a deep breath before he explained, “Last night we were checking out a warehouse, Cas had filled us in on a what looked like a demon hideout. It was an easy hunt, nothing out of the ordinary.” Sam eyed Dean’s expression, waiting for it to falter, but Dean hadn’t heard anything worth a reaction yet. “A demon ran at you and you collapsed-I swear to God, Dean, you just dropped-and you were like stuck in a weird trance until Cas knocked you out.” Sam rushed through the details and waited for Dean’s reaction.

            Dean ran a hand across his chin, rubbing the stubble that had grown there. The warehouse was familiar, he remembered driving there and hearing the demons inside, but the rest of the story was foreign to him. He squinted at Sam and crossed his arms, “Are you sure?” he had to ask. “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.” His words straightened up Cas’ already rigid posture and Sam just peered back at him, clearly trying to determine his honesty.

            A few soul-staring moments passed before Sam sighed and he seemed to dub Dean’s words truthful. Cas looked less convinced but he didn’t say anything, still busy watching his every move. “Cas, really. I don’t remember, you can stop staring,” Dean suggested, relieved when the angel’s eyes finally fell from his face.

            “And you feel fine now?” Sam confirmed, his eyebrows raised.

            “Yup. Despite feeling a bit sleep-deprived.” He gave them both a pointed look before he fell back onto the bed, groaning in delight at the softness of the mattress. “Wake me up when you’ve got a real case.” He grabbed a pillow and stuffed it over his head, tuning out any noises they might make. He heard a few muffled words before he was pretty sure Cas disappeared. He peaked out from under his pillow and watched Sam climb into the other bed, resigning himself to sleep as well. He noticed the bags under Sam’s eyes for the first time as his brother laid down and turned away from him. Things must’ve been pretty bad last night for Sam to stay up the whole night. Dean probed his memories one more time for some recollection of what they’d told him. Finding nothing, once again, he resigned himself to some much-needed sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

            Cas had stayed with them for a whole week after what they had started to call ‘Dean’s incident.’ Dean knew he was just trying to help but that hadn’t stopped him from acting like a surly teenager whenever Castiel showed the slightest bit of concern. He’d appreciated Cas’ company and the help he was giving them on hunts, but he was admittedly glad to see him go when he finally seemed to decide the ‘incident’ was a one-time occurrence. Everyone was entitled to freak-out moments, after all. Even Winchesters.

            On their own, once again, the boys did what they did best: research and the rehabilitation of all the evil forces they could manage to find. Two whole months had passed before it happened again.

            It had been a vampire this time. And when the blackness overtook him to conjure up the past, Dean got a glimpse of the demon that set him off the last time, a sudden recollection overtaking him and increasing his horror tenfold with the recent memory. The vampire looked nothing like the demon, his hair and eyes different colors and his height much shorter. He wasn’t even holding a blade, causing Dean’s last thought before losing coherency to be _why did these two set me off?_

            Like the last time, with the blackness came a memory. The monster, now in the vampire’s place, chuckled, low and throaty far above Dean’s hidden head. His hand moved lazily along Dean’s bare spine, eliciting shivers and shudders that Dean thought would crumble his bones to dust. The hand moved down to grip his chin, finding no trouble getting through the thin protection Dean’s arms tried to provide. The monster’s fingers pulled and yanked at his mandible, trying to move Dean’s sightline up towards his face. The horror that the pull seated in Dean’s chest made him fight back, wanting nothing more than to avoid the corrupted, rotting face that was sure to look down at him if he gave in. Long, wordless wails were rippling out of him, his howls only making the monster laugh harder and pull firmer. Then, as quickly as it had come, the past was gone again, and Sam and Cas stared down at him, their own fear clear in the set of their tight jaws. Sam had a hand pulling through Dean’s hair, meant to be soothing, but Dean pulled away from it, pleased to be able to move his body in this reality. Sam looked hurt and Dean wanted to apologize, to turn back towards him with a “sorry” on his lips, but the thought alone made his shoulders shake and tense. He couldn’t hear the words Sam offered him, his features anxious as he looked down at him. A deafening roaring in Dean’s ears was drowning everything out so he moved his hands to cover his ears, hoping to muffle it a little. He focused on Cas’ lips then, a hard line that didn’t shift, a solid point in the tormenting waves of sound and shivers that continued to crash into him.

            The terror he’d felt the first time when Cas lifted his fingers pulsed through him again when he glimpsed their slow approach. But this time he forced himself to calm, remembering vaguely the peace he was allowed when they’d touched him. His eyes followed the approaching digits, his body already growing laxer with the expectation. Cas’ fingers stopped then, inches from his face. The angel’s eyes were nearly closed in concentration, raking over Dean’s body and his face, an intrigued look lining his cheeks and the corners of his eyes. Dean could feel the panic bubbling up again and he refused to wait through Castiel’s examination. He concentrated on reaching up to push Cas’ fingers to his forehead on his own. He saw Cas’ eyes grow wide for a brief moment before the promised calm of sleep overtook him.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.--.-.-.-.-.-.--.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

            It was more than frustrating. It was maddening. Sam had had high hopes for when Dean came to this time; he anticipated at least some kind of small remembrance. But, again, he and Castiel were disappointed when Dean had taken his sweet time sleeping in before waking with a leisurely stretch and a joke about their serious faces. Cas had elected to stay until Dean woke up this time, sure that they’d missed something before or that Dean would recall the events. It took all of five minutes of Sam and Cas’ shared looks before Dean figured out what had happened and he asked for details.

            “Where was it, this time?” he sighed, plopping down into one of the chairs in the small motel room. Sam still waited for a moment. It was too unbelievable that Dean could just block the whole thing out like it didn’t even happen.

            “You honestly don’t remember?” Sam ventured, sure awareness was going to grasp Dean at any moment and he would double over in another episode.

            “Sure, I remember. I remember we were checking out a vamp nest-a pretty small one at that-and well, it gets a little fuzzy after that.” Dean shrugged and began cleaning the gun on the table. He looked completely calm about the fact that he kept blacking out and missing hours at a time, while Sam felt like he’d pull his hair out from worrying about it.

            Sam swallowed his disbelief. “Nothing about crippling fear or falling to the ground? Anything like that ringing a bell?” Sam waited but Dean’s only response was to look up at him with a grin., his silent ‘no.’

            Cas finally spoke up: “I think you should let me take a look inside your head, Dean,” he began stepping towards him, his hand raised in a soundless question. When Dean looked up and saw his outstretched hand, he stood, all amusement wiped from his face.

            He put his hands up as if to keep Cas back. “Hold up, there, Cas. I don’t want you or anyone poking around up there.” The fear that widened Dean’s eyes was enough to make Cas still his approach and lower his hand, obeying. Dean hid the fear that had filtered through, but not before Sam and Cas both got a good look at it.

            “Oh, come on, Cas. You know we need to know what’s going on with him,” Sam pleaded, ignoring his brother’s glare. Cas looked resigned, unwilling to do anything Dean didn’t want him to.

            “Hey!” Dean countered, “I’m not hurt or anything. Can we just drop it?” Sam pursed his lips, leering at him, not letting him win that easily.

            “Fine,” he finally muttered, but a smile spread across Sam’s lips in a smirk as Dean let the pride of winning show on his face, “then you’re not hunting until you let Cas take a look. I’m sick of worrying you’re gonna drop whenever someone comes at you.”

            “Like hell, I’m not,” Dean responded, getting up to put on his jacket and leave. Sam rushed to the door before he could beat him there and blocked his exit. When Dean tried to push around him anyways, Sam easily put him in a headlock. Dean’s lethargy from the episode took almost all of the fight out of him. A few moments of scuffling to no avail produced Dean’s surrender and he pushed away from Sam to collapse on the bed nearest him. “Fuck it,” he mumbled into the comforter, “take your little look, Cas.”

            Cas had approached Dean with uncertainty, waiting for him to change his mind, surely. But Dean stayed where he was; face down on the mattress as he waited. The angel sat on the edge of bed and cleared his throat. “Um, Dean?”

            “What Cas?” Dean growled into the fabric, lifting his head a little to glance at the man next to him.

            “I need you to turn over,” Cas answered, the authority he usually employed back in his voice. Dean did nothing to hide his annoyed groan as he turned over, closing his eyes as he lay on his back. Sam felt himself back against the far wall, content to watch. His shoulders tensed in wait in case another episode chose to grasp Dean’s body and mind. Cas lifted his hands to Dean’s forehead, placing two fingers on each temple. He then closed his eyes and concentrated hard, if the set of his eyebrows was anything to go on.

            Sam prepared for the worst, but nothing really happened. When Cas finally stood and stepped back from the bed, his face was blank.

            “So?” Dean prodded. He opened one eye and looked at Cas, waiting. Cas looked at Dean and then turned to Sam.

            “Whatever it is that’s bothering him, it’s buried deep. I can’t even get deep enough to look at it.” Cas’ voice was defeated, and he turned back to look at Dean with his eyes narrowed. “I’m going to make some inquiries upstairs,” he announced before leaning closer towards Sam, “don’t let him hunt,” he whispered before disappearing.

            “What?” Dean asked, seeing Cas’ secret-telling. “What’d he say?” He sat up to lean against the headboard.

            Despite the situation, Sam chuckled, “You’re grounded, man. No hunting for you.” He smiled as Dean’s eyes grew wide and then narrowed in a glare. The whole image was laughable; Dean trying to intimidate him with his hair askew from their tussling earlier. He looked less threatening than a puppy.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

            The third time it happened, Sam figured it to be the scariest. Dean reacted the same way that he had the previous two times; he’d fallen to the ground and been unresponsive. But this time it happened in the middle of the frozen foods isle of a grocery store. They hadn’t been hunting for days when Dean had reached into the grocery freezer to grab a frozen pizza when he’d collapsed. The lack of an enemy or the threat of danger made Sam’s forehead break out in sweat as he realized his brother’s condition was one that couldn’t be prevented with a stress free lifestyle.

            Sam called for Castiel who came and him and the shivering, rumpled man out of there and back to the motel. They’d put him asleep and waited for him to wake up again, the serious extent of the situation finally dawning on them.

            Whole days passed this time before Dean was conscious again, the passing time doing nothing but to wind Sam’s nerves even tighter. Cas claimed to have an idea about how to proceed but he waited for Dean to wake to mention it.

            “I think it’s time you see a therapist,” Sam suggested when Dean had stumbled out of bed and they’d told him what had happened. “Clearly, you’ve got some repressed emotions that need to be dealt with.” Dean had reacted as expected, giving Sam his best ‘are you fucking nuts?’ face.

            Luckily Castiel stepped up to the plate, revealing his bright idea: “If you’re uncomfortable with that then perhaps you’d consider hypnosis?” Cas raised his eyebrows, eagerly waiting for a response.

            To Sam’s surprise, Dean didn’t immediately shoot down the idea. Instead, he turned around slowly to face them with a hand rubbing his chin, deep in thought. Finally, he spoke: “That sounds a hell of a lot better than having some quack ask me about childhood trauma.” Cas brightened at that. “At least I’m not gonna be revealed to be a fallen angel like Anna, huh?” he asked, facing Sam, a smile tugging at the side of his mouth.

            Dean’s willingness was surprising, but it sure made it easier to plan their next move. They left the next morning with a destination in mind and hopes for answers. From the way Dean was fidgeting while looking out the passenger window of the Impala (he’d had to give up driving for the time being) Sam suspected he was more shaken up by the incidents than he was letting on. Cas was in the backseat, unwilling to miss any new developments. Whenever Sam glanced back at him in the rearview mirror, his eyes were always on Dean. His worried expression made it hard for Sam to expect the best out of the next few days.


	3. Chapter 3

The long drive to Lawrence, Kansas left something to be desired on the entertainment front. They had only one state border to cross and hours of boring middle-of-nowhere-ness to suffer through, so at least Sam didn’t have much of a chance at screwing up the route. He kept sending slanting peeks Dean’s way and Cas was less than talkative in the back seat, leaving the environment in the car too quiet and full of tension. Uncomfortable under their close scrutiny, Dean busied himself by singing a little too loud to the music, trying to ignore them both as best he could. He also tried not to dwell on the fact that Sam let him pick the music, despite his spot in the passenger seat.

“How do we always end up back in Lawrence?” Dean wondered aloud after a particularly boring three-hour stretch through some empty farmland.

Sam smirked next to him, keeping his eyes on the road, “With the amount of cross-country driving we do, you really think that’s the most unlikely thing that’s happened to us?”

“Valid point,” Dean grunted in response. Castiel remained silent in the back seat.

Another hour of silence and the feeling of someone’s eyes on the back of his neck and Dean couldn’t take it anymore. He shifted in his seat to look back at the angel, his eyebrows raised and his eyes wide in a voiceless question. Cas just looked back at him like a kid who knows he did something wrong who’s just waiting for his dad to yell at him: his back pressed tightly against the seat with his hands clasped in his lap.

The picture leeched all the anger and annoyance from Dean’s shoulders and he found himself letting out an unexpected chuckle, filling the tension-filled car with some much-needed noise.

“What’s the issue, Cas?” he asked playfully, a smile still lighting his face.

Cas’ scowl didn’t waver. “I wish you’d stop treating this like a joke. This seems serious, Dean.”

Dean rolled his eyes and faced forward again, not missing the sidelong look Sam threw his way, obviously in agreement with the feathered friend.

Just like that, the tension was back again, so Dean decided to play it off: “It better be serious, I’m not gonna think it’s funny if she makes me do the chicken dance while I’m under.” The bad joke was answered by quiet as Dean suspected it would be. He pointed his gaze out the passenger window and turned the classic rock station up; making sure his face was out of view of the others.

As much as he hoped for the best and tried to keep his nerves under control, burying them under his macho male bravado and dumb jokes, he had an itchy feeling in the back of his head that told him he didn’t want to know the cause for Sam and Cas’ concerns. And as scared as he was to face whatever it was, he couldn’t deny that his “episodes” were beginning to cause problems. He wouldn’t be able to take it if Sam _or_ Cas got himself killed trying to come to his aid in a dangerous situation. Their descriptions of what had happened were enough to send shivers down his spine at the mere thought. He expected his mood would be significantly worse when they got this over with.

In true Winchester form, he forced down the fear and focused on the lyrics of the Ozzy Osbourne song playing, (badly) singing along to the radio for the last two hours of the trek.

            When they finally pulled up to the rundown house, Dean was more than ready to stretch his legs and breathe in some air that didn’t taste like panic and pessimism. He was the first out of the car but last to walk up the steps of the porch, reveling in the fresh air and mental stability that suddenly seemed so fleeting. When Sam rapped his knuckles against the door, he finally dragged his feet up the stairs, joining them. He silently hoped she had moved away and he wouldn’t have to do this.

            “Maybe we should’ve called first,” Sam muttered when two minutes had passed and they’d received no answer. Dean was just about to let out a relieved sigh when he heard faint footsteps on the other side of the door.

            Her voice filtered through the oak before it was even fully open: “I was wondering when you boys were going to show up. And with an angel no less.” She had to strain her neck a little to look up at their faces before she trailed her eyes up and down Cas’ awkward stance.

            “Hey, Missouri,” Dean acknowledged, finding it hard to meet the woman completely in the eyes, remembering her low-tolerance for bullshit the last time they’d been in touch.

            She gazed back at him, “Dean Winchester, what kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into, now?” She turned to lead them all down the short hallway and into the living room. Sam had a small smile tugging at his lips, already letting Missouri’s personality and tendency to give Dean a hard time break the tension that Dean had battled for so long in the car.

            Missouri claimed the lone arm chair, forcing the three of them to crowd in together on the too-small couch, their elbows all in each other’s sides.

            She stared each of them down and they all let her, no one daring to speak without her permission. Even Cas showed the utmost respect, to Dean’s surprise, and the angel simply stared straight back at her.

            When she’d had her eyeful, she leaned back and tightened her fingers on the arms of the chair. “Somehow, I knew it’d be the older one…” she said, eyeing Dean. “Lay it on me.” She crossed her arms and waited for the full story.

            Sam was the one to man up, Dean didn’t really know enough and Cas seemed to know better than to be his normal, awkward self for once. “Well, as you so aptly guessed, Dean’s been having these…” he paused, no doubt unsure what to call them, “well, there have been these incidents. Incidents where he seems to get really scared-“ Dean was glaring at him, “-sorry, man, that’s what it looks like, and he doesn’t remember it afterwards.” Missouri was watching Dean again, tracking his every move and no doubt listening to some spiritual mumbo jumbo that went unheard to them, as well. Sam took her silence as an invitation to continue. “Anyway, we were hoping you’d be able to help us out hypnosis-wise. We need to figure out what’s setting him off because it seems to be different every time. He’s got it buried so deep that Castiel can’t even get a read on it.” Sam was sitting forward now, fully engaged. “We thought maybe he has repressed emotions or something.” Dean was beginning to fidget under Missouri’s scrutiny and his shoulders slumped in relief to have her lift it at last.

            “So what? You boys just assume every psychic is also a hypnotist? Bit presumptuous, don’t you think?” Her eyebrows raised high on her forehead and this time she pinned her sights on Sam, somehow sensing that it was his idea to come to her.

            Dean watched Sam open his mouth to defend himself but he could only stammer. Dean chuckled before he stood to make a hasty exit, “Let’s go, Sammy. Don’t want to bother the lady, unnecessarily.” He slipped a hand under Cas’ elbow, guided him to his feet, and pulled the as-yet quiet angel with him to the front door. Sam stayed in his seat with a ridiculous puppy dog look lighting his features.

            “Dean Winchester, sit your ass back down on my couch,” Missouri commanded without moving an inch from her seat. Something about her tone made him helpless to disobey. He dragged Cas with him as he returned with his tail between his legs, avoiding eye contact with the short woman.

            Cas finally broke his silence: “Can you help us, or not? Because we’d be hard-pressed to find someone else capable who would be sensitive to our... unique situation.” Cas’ voice boomed with the power Dean knew he harbored, and he was relieved to see at least one of them seemed able to stand up to the woman.

            She fixed her unyielding eyes on the angel, then, and what looked like a staring contest took place. Dean didn’t breathe for what he figured to be an entire minute before Missouri’s eyes released Cas.

            “’Course, I can. What kind of psychic would I be? Unable to hypnotize people…” she’d begun to mutter and Dean’s nerves returned full-force, making his palms sweat.

            “But _will_ you?” Sam ventured, his voice embarrassingly timid.

            Missouri laughed and it was hard not to at least smile with her. “What would your daddy say if I didn’t? That man already talks my ear off from the other side as it is. If I said ‘no,’ I’d _never_ hear the end of it!”

            Sam seemed to relax at that, but Dean just felt warmer, leaning away from Cas to avoid sticking to him with sweat. Cas eyes him with what looked like pity but he said nothing.

            “Well, there’s no time like the present!” Missouri announced, gripping one of Sam’s and Cas’ arms, tugging them up off the couch. Dean guessed her motives and stretched out across it, laying on his back. He tried not to draw comparisons between his position and the therapy option he’d turned down.

            That fear that had been hiding right under the surface all day – since he heard about the first ‘episode,’ really – well, now there was no stopping or repressing it. He knew it was present in his eyes as he felt the bitter taste of it bubble up into his throat. He tried not to look at Sam or Cas, sure that that unbearable look of sympathy would stare back at him. He focused on the ceiling instead, as Missouri situated herself, moving the arm chair closer and settling into it.

            She commanded the spectators to keep quiet then she turned back to Dean, instructing him to breathe deeply…

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.--.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

            Sheer anticipation was what caused the hairs on Sam’s arms to stand up. Castiel was still beside him, no doubt expecting another episode like Sam was, if Missouri could get through to him at all.

            They didn’t need to wait long to find out – Missouri had Dean under in record time, probably a result of how tired he’d been lately, due to the incidents.

            “Now Dean, honey, I’d like you to do something for me,’ her voice regarded him much softer than it did when he was awake, “I’m gonna ask you to dig down into some… probably painful stuff. I want you to remember that it may be hurtful now, but it’ll heal.” She leaned closer to his unconscious head, “and you _need_ to heal,” Sam heard her whisper.

            “Dean, I want you to find the memory with the demon in the warehouse, the one with the knife.” She knew the details somehow, not needing to ask Sam outright. Dean seemed to do as she asked, his eyes shifting under his eyelids. When he wrenched them tightly closed and his fingernails gripped the couch, Sam knew he’d found it.

            “Do you have it?” Missouri asked quietly. Dean’s ‘yes’ in reply came out as a hiss, like he was exerting a lot of energy by thinking about it. Missouri smoothed a hand across Dean’s forehead and continued.

            “Alright, I know it hurts. Now I’m going to need you to find the next one, the night with the vampire…” her voice trailed off when Dean’s face grew more pained immediately, finding the memory in no time. “Good,” she praised. “Dean, remember the grocery store.” This time he thrashed around and Missouri had to sit back to avoid getting clocked. She ordered him to still and caught one of his hands in both of her own, Sam realized he had taken a step forward when Cas released a restraining hand from his arm.

            From Sam’s spot beside her chair, the part of Missouri’s face that he could see looked somber, and she sighed deeply before speaking her next words: “Okay. Your body’s gonna fight it, your brain is trying to protect you. I know you know there’s something on the other side of that wall and I know you don’t want to look, but you’re gonna have to, Dean.” She waited, rubbing Dean’s hand between her own.

            The writhing and thrashing came back with a vengeance and Dean ripped his hand out of her grasp. He wriggled back until he was wedged between the back and the seat of the couch, his chest facing them all, buried in the cushions. His eyes were firmly closed and his teeth were biting his bottom lip, drawing blood. He brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, an image Sam found far too familiar at this point. When Dean started whimpering and gasping, Sam couldn’t hold off any longer.

            “Missouri! Wake him up!” he yelled, the dread piercing his voice. He moved forward to kneel next to his brother, ignoring Missouri’s warning look. Cas pulled him back, his expression unreadable.

            Missouri hurried through the process, counting from ten back to one and instructing Dean to remember everything he’d seen when he woke. Before the last step, she told him to be unafraid upon consciousness, repeating it a few times before she touched his forehead lightly and his eyes snapped open.

            Dean took one look at the room, his pupils massively dilated, before he pushed past them and raced down the hall and out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

            When he felt that he could get up, he did, wasting no time waiting there for the hysteria to choke him. He didn’t feel like his body was his, he needed to move, to do _something_ that made it possible for him not the think about it all.

            He was standing directly in front of a stout, black woman, and there was a vaguely familiar tugging at the edge of his brain that he had no chance of focusing on – his mind already full to the brim of memories, thoughts, and emotions. On top of all that, there was the logical part; crowding in on the negative space, pushing everything at bay so he wouldn’t crumble to the ground in a heap of flesh and overheated brain matter. His brain’s ability to function at all considering everything it was processing was a mystery in itself, not that he had any room up there to really think about that.

            There were more faces in front of him, then, but he didn’t focus on them, letting them rush by with a blur as he moved. He devoted every thought to stepping forward, staying upright, breathing – the things that couldn’t hurt him.

            There was something blocking his way; a door, he realized belatedly, which he wrenched to the side. He welcomed the cold air that enveloped him, another cherished distraction.

            He tripped going down the stairs, an invisible chain from a different time the cause. He landed hard on his chin, snapping his teeth together hard. The pain was good, even more appreciated than the wind skirting around the edges of his jacket. Upon getting up, he fisted his hands – letting his fingernails bite deeply into the tender flesh that he’d scraped trying to break his fall.

            When he got to the back of the car, he heaved the trunk open, haphazardly filling his duffel with odds and ends. He was _sure_ to pack some paint and the demon blade.

            He slammed the trunk and turned, jogging down the sidewalk. There was a harsh noise assaulting his ears that seemed out of place for the setting but he refused to be idle and figure out what it was. He focused on the sound of his hurried footsteps, the jingle of the zipper of his bag, the heaviness of his clothes, the tug of the wind at the hems of his apparel and his hair…

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

            It was almost worse, watching him move around instead of cradling himself on the ground; with those crazy eyes, never stopping to settle on one thing for more than a second, always flitting about to check his back to watch for threats. They’d all followed him out onto the porch, unsure of how to proceed, afraid to approach him and put him into more of a frenzy.

            When he quickly packed up some weapons and began running away, Sam started shouting after him, receiving no reply.

            “We should follow him, correct?” came Cas’ question. Missouri reached into her house to grab her jacket and then she locked the door, she and Cas following Sam to the Impala.

            They caught up to him pretty quickly, but Sam kept about thirty yards behind him, just to be careful. There wasn’t a doubt in Sam’s mind that Dean knew they were following him, he looked back over his shoulder about every ten seconds. With where Dean decided to stop, they probably could have managed on foot – Missouri’s house less than a mile down the road and around the block.

            Dean had chosen a area that seemed to be in the middle of construction, though it was deserted presently. The houses weren’t finished but they had walls and roofs, apparently that was enough.

            They parked and watched as Dean broke a window in the house nearest him, not his normal, inconspicuous way of entering, but Sam was relieved to see him wrap his hand in his jacket before punching through, proving some semblance of mind still remained in his brother’s head.

            Dean disappeared inside without sending a look their way, obviously intending to squat in the empty house for the time being.

            Cas leaned forward in the back seat, “I’ll go in after him.” Before he dematerialized, Missouri placed her hand on his arm, giving him pause.

            “I’m not sure that’s the best idea at this precise moment.” Cas seemed to accept her opinion as valid as he leaned back with a nod.

            “Have you ever seen anything remotely like this?” Sam asked her, praying she had some, _any_ experience in this area.

            She cocked her head before answering. “Not to this extent. Which isn’t surprising, considering the messes you Winchesters get yourselves into.” Sam was wary, he was sure it was obvious in his slumped shoulders and the frown that had begun to feel almost permanent lately.

            “I’d give him tonight by himself, at least. His mind’s gonna try to heal itself the only way it can, and that might not be in the way you two are comfortable with. You may even have to consider, at some point, that Dean _won’t_ heal, at least not completely. He may not turn out to be the same Dean you know, so lose all your expectations.” Sam nodded, eager to do as she said to make this easy as possible, though his chest felt like her words were adding pounds and pounds to his ribs, making it difficult to breathe.

            She reached over and gave his shoulder a squeeze before she opened the passenger door and climbed out. Sam flinched at her hast departure, clueless as to what to do without her guidance. He slid across the bench sea to speak out the window, “Do you know what’s causing it? Did you pick up on _anything_?” His voice cracked on the last word.

            “I wish I did,” her smile was sympathetic. “I think Dean’s the only one who really knows.” She waved at them both, “You know where I’ll be, even if you just need someone to talk to.” She turned and began walking back to her house but paused to ask something, “Whatever it is, Sam, I have a feeling it’s of the soul-scarring variety.” She squinted at him, giving her words a warning edge, “Don’t be expecting a supernatural solution.” She threw a pointed look at Castiel before she resumed her walk home.

            Sam turned back to face Cas, glad to find that the angel looked just as scared shitless as he felt. “Are you gonna… stay?” he asked, swallowing the lump in his throat. If Cas left him he had no idea what he was going to do.

            Cas’ deep voice was comforting when it filled the car, “Of course, Sam.” He relaxed at that, looking towards the house, searching for any movement.

            “Good.”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.--.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

            Dean figured he was in what might turn out to be a bedroom, hunched down in the back corner, facing the open door with a salt-round filled shotgun in his lap.

            It was torture, sitting still, but he knew that it was where he was safest. He’d been able to think a little more clearly once he was alone, out of sight, with the only sounds distracting him coming from himself.

            The first thing he’d done was check the structure, every crevice, every corner, for another living soul. Then he’d painted devil’s traps – heavy duty stuff – at each door and window, salting as he went. He’d even put one in front of the chimney for good measure. He left the doors and windows locked, finding a board to nail up over the window he’d broken.

            Next he’d poured every last bit of holy water he had on himself, both cleansing and… checking. He cringed a little at the coldness but held onto the feeling, touching his wet hair with his hand whenever he took a breath in.

            He stayed, facing the door, all night, never so much as drooping an eyelid from lethargy, blinking as little and as quickly as he could, wanting, _needing_ to be able to see if someone found him.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.--.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

            Sam had kept his eyes open for as long as he could, which would have been impressively long under normal circumstances, but he hadn’t been sleeping well lately and he dropped off somewhere in the early hours of the morning. Luckily, Cas had no trouble staying awake to watch the place throughout the night.

            Sam woke up with a start, his knees stiff from sleeping with them up against the dashboard. He must’ve fell asleep pretty unexpectedly because he hadn’t thought to stretch out across the bench seat, sleeping sitting upright, giving him a crick in his neck as well. He felt an upsetting pang when he thought _Dean would’ve woken me up and told me to lay the hell down..._ He expelled the thought, sitting up straight and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

            He jumped when he noticed that Cas was in the seat next to him, facing forward and sitting ramrod straight.

            “God, Cas, you scared me,” he muttered before sobering. “Any movement?” he asked with a yawn, squinting to try and spot anything inside the windows.

            “No, he’s in the same place he was last night. He didn’t sleep,” Cas answered without looking away from the house.

            “What place?”

            Cas faced him now, “In one of the back rooms.” He peered out the window in the direction of Missouri’s house. “Do you think we can go in, now?” he asked, his bright eyes wide and alive.

            Sam took a somewhat unconscious glance back at Missouri’s house, following Cas’ example, half expecting her to appear out of thin air and scold them for something they hadn’t done yet. “I don’t think there’s any other way to find out,” he answered hesitantly, pushing his door open with a creak.

            Cas followed him out of the car and they both walked to the unfinished house, no doubt slower than Cas would have preferred, but he didn’t complain.

            Sam took a somewhat more conventional way breaking in, using a lock pick. Before opening the door, he turned to Cas, “He’s not, like, on the other side of the door about to shoot me, is he?” The angel shook his head and Sam took a deep breath, pushing the door gently. As an afterthought, he pushed it against the wall, trying to be as noisy as possible so they wouldn’t surprise him, as if anything could really sneak up on Dean Winchester.

            Sam let Cas lead after that; the angel knew where Dean was and if he decided to attack or something, Cas had the best chance of survival.

            Up some stairs and down a hallway, they found themselves outside a small bedroom, looking through the open door as an unblinking Dean stared back. He had a shotgun pointed at them, his face unreadable.

            When Cas took a hesitant step forward, Dean’s eyes narrowed and he flicked the safety off, lining his sights up to stare down the barrel at the angel. Castiel picked up on the soundless warning and took a step back, his palms outstretched in front of him in a show of surrender.

            “Dean?” Sam finally asked, some of the anxiety coloring his words. “Are you alright?”

            His brother’s eyes were burning and they shifted to him, his steady gaze faltering when he met his. “You should leave,” he grunted through his teeth, his voice raspy.

            “We just want to help you,” Sam pleaded.

            “Then leave.” His posture was unyielding.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.--.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

            The only way to describe the feeling as he stared out at the two of them was to say he was unbelievably torn. Here stood his brother, the person he trusted most in the world coupled with the angel, the one who’d given up just about everything he held dear to help the Winchesters save the world. There was nothing about either of them to promote the sickly feeling in the bottom of his gut, yet the thought of them taking one step into the room put his teeth on edge and made his mouth taste sour.

            He’d put on his most dangerous face; he could feel the wildness in his eyes and the silent snarl on his lips, yet Sam stood his ground, having moved forward to almost fill the door frame and block Castiel out behind his giant figure. Sam’s eyes were kind and his smile pitying, but his size was enough to make Dean cringe with horrible recollection. He couldn’t even blink as he watched his little brother, his stature too comparable of the now ever-present monster that fought to be in his every thought.

            His eyes began to water and his terror began to mount – he balanced his weapon on his knees to push his fists to his ears, trying to silence the sound of chains, the wet noise of the give of flesh, and the shrill keen of sharpening blades.

            He was vaguely aware of a body rushing towards him, arms outstretched. They wrapped around him tightly and the noise in his ears grew deafening. His skin burned hot, he was sure it would boil off at any moment, his stomach heaved and he vomited down the back of whoever was holding him – forcing his blurry eyes shut.

            When he opened them, the thin thread he’d been able to grasp of the present was gone, the cold air of the October morning had disappeared without a trace and the flames of hell were back, licking at his every pore and cell. This place had no escape, not even for a moment in closed eyes – the eyelids were always the first thing they took from you – no hiding from the horror repeatedly unfolding in front of your eyes, having to watch almost as bad as the pain and fear itself.

            The monster was there, he couldn’t see him but he could feel him breathing heavily against the side of his neck, the rack making it impossible to turn and look at the charred flesh and soulless features of the thing that fed off of his every hope, pushed and pushed until emptiness was all that remained. The worst thing being that by then you welcomed the emptiness, longed to know nothing of happiness or trust so the pain was all you knew, made into the only life you knew how to live.

            Dean longed for that now, knowing it would come eventually, but not before every nerve ending was exposed, not until begging shrieks filled every breath through ragged, shredded lips, the sound a continuous chorus that quickly became all he thought capable of sound.

            He was eager to get on with it, he heaved out an already broken sob, “Please, Please just stop.”

            The heat that enclosed him responded, to his utter surprise, it was replaced with cold air, putting the hell fire surrounding him completely at odds.

            The monster called to him through the smoke and the flames, “Dean. DEAN!” The rack shuddered underneath him, shaking his limbs like a lifeless rag doll, which he probably was.

            There was green at the edge of his vision, and the monster’s voice grew more and more clear, giving way to a familiarity that _didn’t_ come from listening to decades of orders and cackling taunts from the other end of an impossibly sharp blade.

            Suddenly the familiar scene all but disappeared, the only reminder in the form of orange flickering, clearly overlaid on his now hell-less eyesight.

            A blank face stood inches from his own – nothing about it reminding him of the scarred one deep below. He refused to move his eyes from the calm blue ones staring back, taking in the green grass and open lawn with purely peripheral vision.

            The savior’s lips moved, and Dean was amazed by the deep, almost melodic cadence of the word that tumbled out. “Dean?” It took him a moment to realize it was a question and even longer for him to remember how to answer without screaming or gasping.

            The feeling of this place was completely foreign, yet a vague _deja-vu_ feeling overcame him – especially looking back at his savior. There was protective control in his straight stance, kindness in his full mouth. Even the slight wrinkles at the corners of his eyes managed to convey peace and the promise of a smile.

            The features calmed him, and when the breaths chafing his throat slowed enough, he remembered his savior was his angel. _That’s twice now,_ he thought ambiguously.

            “Castiel,” came his rushed response finally. Those blank eyes filled with raw emotion, though which one Dean wasn’t sure.

            “Where are we?” He was still unable to shift his gaze to really look.

            “One of my favorite factions of heaven, or a version of it, at least.” Cas let his head droop to the side, “Are you ready to go back, now?” Dean’s eyes widened in fear, the flames and the reflection of light off of a knife already threatening to return. Castiel’s eyes tightening at the response, at Dean’s fingers digging into the flesh of his upper arms.

            “Don’t make me go back, Cas. _Please,_ ” he gasped intensely, his grip on the angel tightening even more. He fell to his knees, transferring his grip to the hem of the long coat, burying his face in the cloth. “Why do I have to go back?” he questioned, not feeling a hint of embarrassment at the whine in his voice.

            Cas’ fingers found his hair, pulling it lightly to tug Dean’s gaze upward. “You belong in the mortal realm, Dean. Did Sam really upset you that much?” His shining eyes almost looked like they had tears in them, looking down at what Dean assumed was a broken, pathetic man.

            Dean worked to concentrate on his words and the image they evoked – something different than the torture he’s expected and come to known as normal, though it wasn’t as calm as the environment here.

            “Mortal realm…” he echoed, sure the phrase symbolized a place different than which he’d just come.

            “With Sam,” Cas prompted, reassured by Dean’s slow recognition.

            “Not h-hell?” Dean couldn’t help asking, needing to hear the angel’s denial out loud, in plain words.

            Cas looked confused at that, but his features smoothed and he responded, “Not hell.” His fingers gripped Dean’s scalp, making his words clear and forceful.

            Dean clung to the words, the tenseness leaving his shoulders.


	5. Chapter 5

_**I know I'm a horrible person for taking so long to update and that being "busy" isn't a proper excuse. BUT I WAS. School and work started up again so I've literally been able to write very little at very rare intervals. Anyways, this chapter didn't get super graphic, which I'm relieved about, but I'm still gonna say it:** _

_**Trigger warning! Do not read if you are easily triggered by references to rape or forms of physical abuse!** _

_**Thanks so much for readin', guys!** _

Castiel's protective, strong arms and how they gripped his shoulders tightly were enough to get him to abandon his makeshift shelter, eventually agreeing to relocate to the motel room Sam had rented in town.

It had taken Sam all of two hours to figure out he'd need to rent a separate room for himself. Dean finally seemed and felt somewhat like himself again but the threat of what might happen, even with Cas there, had Dean holed up in the bathroom, a mere pine door between him and his brother.

Sam's voice had sounded hurt when Cas had suggested it, explaining how maybe Dean just needed some rest without anyone around to see as a possible threat. Dean didn't hear a whole lot of convincing take place before he heard the outer door close and Cas' deep voice from the empty room:

"Dean?" A pause. "Sam's gone. Do you feel safe enough to come out?" His voice was very hesitant, as if Dean were a wild animal, likely to scamper away at any minute. He could admit that the analogy wasn't too far off-base.

Dean had to think through the question. Then he had to spend whole minutes looking inward to judge how he felt. He was still sweating and his heart rate was fast, but the overwhelming panic that had gripped him before had lessened substantially.

His guard was up as he pulled the door to the main room open, and he let out a big breath when he saw that is was just him and Cas. He ignored Cas' gaze for a moment while he pushed past him to check and make sure all of the locks were locked on the door, dragging one of the chairs in front of it for good measure as well.

He felt the angel's eyes on him the whole time. When he was satisfied with his barricade, he slouched and walked back to the bed farthest from the door, sitting up against the headboard, facing Castiel.

Keeping those piercing blue eyes on Dean's face, searching for any flinch of fear or freak-out, no doubt, he moved closer until he was seated on the bed opposite Dean.

"Are you ready to talk about it?" he asked, his face full of god-awful understanding and gut-wrenching concern. "I think it could help if you do."

Dean had to laugh at that. "I doubt that, Cas." But contrary to his words, he moved until his legs dangled off the mattress, his knees pointed at Cas'.

For once, Cas' relentless stare was a source of strength instead of annoyance.

The long sigh he heaved out did nothing to steel his resolve, but he forged on, intent on telling Cas everything. He ignored the harsh voice in his head that told him Cas would leave him for it, with no telling how he would survive this, then.

His recitation of his experieces are matter-of-fact, sticking to events, not to emotions. As much as he tries to keep the reflection at arm's length, he feels himself experiences everything all over again, his mind painting a gorey, detailed picture for him to look at as his voice drones on.

_The human brain is pretty creative when it comes to torture, most would imagine losing fingers or being skinned when asked to come up with the worst._

_That's how it always started; the simple, expected stuff was painful in its own respect, but it was nothing more than the torturer's warm-up in most cases._

_The stuff that took the longest, not out of complexity but out of the intent to make it last as long as possible; the stuff that made Dean want to tear himself apart in tiny strips and scraps until nothing was left just to end it was the real hell. The hell he'd suppressed until the demon in the warehouse had come at him. Then it had all shook loose, leaving him no chance of keeping it hidden, ever again._

_The words "sexual" or "rape" had never entered his head. They wouldn't be accurate. Not according to his definition anyway. In his life, sex had been pleasurable, a form of relief or escape from his taxing responsibilities. With this, there was no relief, only growing and building painful intensity with no end in sight._

_He didn't think the choice to stab you where there was already a hole made any difference, the white-hot branding tool leaving any flesh it met with a gnarled, unrecognizable mess. Plus, it didn't matter which hole they used - his mouth, his ass - as long as those suppressed tears rolled over onto his heat-cracked skin then his punishers were content._

_He wouldn't have expected it, but getting cut and burnt and branded hurts so much more when it's on the inside, no way of seeing or knowing how much of your body is ruined, the injuries all hidden behind the curtain of your own skin. The nerves are unprotected where the air has never touched, the body's natural need to protect itself from outside threats leaving no reason to do the same for the inside. The brain just doesn't filter the sting of within like it does with without._

_The thought alone has him grasping his body parts, making sure they're still all there and trying to determine through his muscles and ribs if his organs have been removed through his orifices, yet._

_If that was all he'd suffered, all he'd undergone, he liked to think he could've survived. Sure, he'd never be able to turn his back to anyone ever again, the fear too great, but he could've managed that._

_He'd be fine if it weren't for those last ten years, the years when he'd surpassed torture-ee and become torturer._

_The rules are relatively lax down there once you're holding the tools. You're pushed to partake in as much creativity as you're capable, but there are certain tortures that are required. The very one Dean abhorred more than any other was the main focus._

_At first it had turned his stomach, despite the sense of retribution it instilled. He spent most of his time retching and burning the inside of his throat with stomach acid but he'd grown used to it far too quickly. It didn't even worry him when he began to like it. He figured if this was his lot in life, he may as well enjoy it and use his imagination to his advantage._

_So he did the worst thing you can do to another person, no matter that they were hell-bound souls, and he enjoyed the impersonal intimacy of it much more than he'd ever enjoyed any form of intimacy on Earth._

_And now, he felt his hands_ missing it.  _Itching to tear people apart from the inside-out. It was horrifying, but he couldn't stop his flesh and mind from missing the give of tender, barely touched flesh, and he was terrified that that small part of him that had managed to remind him of how wrong it was wouldn't hold out for much longer._

_He'd never been particularly good at denying himself the few pleasured he could reward himself with .He wasn't sure if this would be any different._

So here's when he drags his gaze up from the floor, too ashamed to look at Cas through the recounting. Forcing himself to meet eyes with the angel, that beautiful, innocent face just mocking him in his undeniable uncleanliness, his aptitude for excruciating acts.

He waits.

For the disgust to register in those angelic features. For the angel's hasty disembarkment. For Cas to renounce any speck of righteousness that he had ever suggested was a part of Dean's soul.

It was taking longer than he expected.

When Cas finally did move, he did so in a very measured way, his eyes never leaving Dean's.

Dean had been prepared for the denouncement, the disowning, but not for Cas' next words:

"I may be able to help."

...

If Dean had known how Castiel planned to help him, he would have been a little less inclined to accept his offer. He wished he had another option, but the intense fear, worry, and admitted evil bubbling inside of him made him unwilling to wait and figure out what other options he had.

Castiel hadn't run. He hadn't even looked at him like the monster he is, although the ever-present pity he'd been wearing on his face recently didn't become any easier to look at, now that Cas knew everything and  _still_ felt sorry for  _him._  Instead of running away screaming, Cas had insisted on getting all of the details.

"Why don't you trust Sam?"

"It's not so much that I don't trust him as I don't trust myself not to hurt him," Dean had answered matter-of-factly, allowing himself to trust (just a little bit) that if Cas hadn't left already, then maybe he wouldn't.

"So, why do you trust me? And trust yourself not to hurt me?" Cas looked like he might already know the answer and was just fact-checking.

"You're the closest thing, outside Sam, and Bobby, that I have to family. Plus, you're kinda the one who got me out of that shit in the first place." It was all obvious, and he hadn't even questioned his trust until then. "And if I hurt you - or try to hurt you, it won't do much good. You're basically indestructible and can wing your way away."

Cas hadn't looked or seemed surprised by his answers and instead began pacing the floor at the foot of the beds, his eyes narrowed in concentration. The humanness of the gesture was almost laughable. Just when Dean had begun to adjust to the unnatural sight, Cas halted, staring at Dean, lifting the hairs on the back of neck that had only recently begun to settle.

He had a question swimming in those deep blue eyes, and Dean wasn't sure he wanted to hear it.

"Would you be willing..." the pause had made it even worse," to let me have another look in your psyche, now that everything's shaken loose?"

Dean was pretty sure Cas could see his body relax at the innocence of the question. He didn't know what he'd expected, but it hadn't been that.

Before Dean could really relax, though, Castiel spoke again. "It won't be easy, Dean. It will involve you reliving your torture." He thought for a moment. "Both forms of it."

Aha! There it was! The source of the inexplicable fear he'd felt.

He had been about to yell, to scream about how, no! He was the opposite of willing! But Cas just looked so timid, so expecting that reaction, that he rethought it.

He'd probably have another  _episode_ soon anyway. Might a well so it so Cas can maybe use it to help him stop them from happening all-together.

So that's how Dean ends up on the motel bed. Cas' hands hover over his forehead as he tries to breathe normally despite what he's about to experience.

And just like that, the motel's gone, and the angel with it. He's back to the heat, the puddles of blood and sweat, and the ever-present, deafening screaming coming from every direction.

At least he'd been expecting it this time so he could tense his shoulders and put his stoic mask in place. It hadn't taken long for him to internalize his fear and pain in this place when he realized the demons got off on it. He soon learned for himself why.

The monster that came at him had a certain likeness to Alistair, but it seemed more of a composite of all the torturers he'd ever had the displeasure of meeting. Its face was just a mess of open sores, scars, and oozing scabs, the darkness on it coming from within instead of the shadows cast by the giant flames.

He and the multitudinous monster didn't exchange greetings before Dean felt the familiar, sharp tip of the knife fileting him from the inside, no need to begin with less harsh forms of punishment when his mind knew where it would end.

Despite his mask, and how well he managed to keep it in place, there were still screams rattling the air that he assumed must be his own. They were just background noise to his battered, shredded ears.

Something hot drove deep into his intestines; he could hear the sizzle of his organs, the smell of burning meat finding its way to his nose.

The smell and sound transformed the scene. Now  _he_ held the metal, and the creature below him was the source of the beautiful sizzling that dropped him swiftly back into his element. His hands, released from the harsh rules of his brain, dug in, finding every nerve, those little sensitive spots that, if used correctly, could cause that delicious howling that his ears missed so much.

The body was just so easy to break, its fragility so enticing. Muscles diced and cubed as if he were a chef preparing a meal. Veins and ventricles pulled apart with bare hands like rubber bands.

The organs were to be next, fileted and skinned like mini-torture-ees themselves. He reached for the liver, saving the heart and lungs for last, but his hand closed around nothing. The fear seeped in, his control lost, as the red and orange and black hues began to fade away around him, replaced by icy, cool air, the smell of bleach, and fingers digging into the flesh around his wrist.

He was uncomfortable to say the least. The hard fingernails in his arm were the only thing keeping him from clawing out of his own skin in this clean, cold place.

The pinch didn't sate him for long, however. His fingers twitched, longing to puncture skin themselves. There was a vague disregard for this course of action in the back of his head, but it was easy to ignore. His fingers rose to the hand on his wrist, ignoring it completely and instead scratching into the skin on his own forearm.

It was a good release, both the sting it elicited and the control it instilled. The red line gleamed better here than it had in hell, without the shadows and flames flickering off of it. It was cleaner and redder than he remembered it ever being.

It was hypnotizing and he reached to put another symmetrical line beside it. A stark white hand snapped out to imprison his fingers before he reached his mark, both of his hands now captured. His nostrils flared as he lifted his eyes to look in the face of his capturer, and the blue that stared back hit him like a truck with their familiarity and crisp anger.

He drops before realizing he can't hold himself up anymore, and instead of sprawling on the ground, stiff arms support him under his elbows.

The whimper that falls from his lips as he falls forward against cool fabric and bony shoulders should embarrass him, but the rolling sobs heaving out of him breathlessly steal his full attention, forcing him to avoid suffocating himself against the course coat's fabric.

The hands move to his back, circling soothingly against his taut muscles.

It's not sudden, remembering who he is. Remembering that he isn't a being created for the sole purpose of hurting and being hurt. Gradually, with the angel's arms around him, he's able to slow his heart, to banish the excitement that the sight of blood had raised.

He wasn't sure quite when it happened, but he ends up with his arms wrapped around the body in front of him. If Cas wasn't an angel, the tightness probably would have bothered him, and his nails clawed deeply into his flesh would have been painful. Dean's relieved to be able to tell that it's not meant to inflict pain, but to keep Cas there, to keep the one thing allowing him to hang onto the real world. Or what he hopes is the real world.

Slowly, he realizes,  _he need Cas._ Maybe he's not there just to help them save the world, or to connect them to heaven. Cas was what he needed to escape hell, and to survive everything afterwards.  _What a waste,_ he things. Surely there are more important things for Castiel to be doing than saving his unworthy ass.

"Did you know saving me from Hell meant more than just pulling me out?" Deans words seem loud, despite the fact that he's whispered them.

Cas' grip doesn't loosed on his back and Dean's grateful. The sooner Cas realizes what Dean needs and what he didn't sign on for, the sooner Cas will smarten up and leave him to lose the rest of his mind.

"Quite frankly, I'm surprised it took this long for the worst memories of Hell to resurface. I was beginning to think that you wouldn't remember them at all."

Cas' voice is deep and Dean likes how it rumbles against his chest, but he still pulls back abruptly at his words.

He stares at the surprised angel, trying to put the feeling of betrayal into words.

"You... you  _knew_?"


	6. Chapter 6

            Cas doesn’t dance around the question, his affirmative answer is short and sweet, without inflection.

            Dean has no intention of letting him off that easily.

            “And? What? You didn’t think that would’ve been helpful information to share with the whole class?” He’s hyperventilating, the trust he has for the only person (only _thing,_ really) keeping him in this world slowly threatening to diminish and leave him even more alone.

            Dean has to fist his hands at his sides to keep them from quivering.

            Cas’ head dips ever-so-slightly to the side, the surprise clear in his features. “Do you really think it would have changed anything?” He looks genuinely curious, as if it’s obvious that it wouldn’t have.

            “It might’ve!” Dean yells, his careful control slipping as the hurt recedes and the barely concealed hate boiling near the surface overflows and fills him to the brim. He lunges forward, intent on his no-longer shaking fingers closing around Castiel’s neck.

            Cas is faster than him, and a tiny part of him is grateful.

            The angel uses his force against him to fling him to the ground on his stomach before sticking a knee below his shoulder blades, effectively pinning him against the rough carpet. The victim in him hates it, waits for Cas to grind his knee harder into his spine; but the monster within is not so easily silenced.

            Dean kicks and writhes, trying to gain back his control, until his every muscle is screaming in protest and his cheeks are rubbed raw from dragging across the rug. The pressure on his back lessens slowly until it’s gone altogether, but instead of getting up, he just lays there, too tired to move. He hopes sleep doesn’t get ahold of him, the nightmares and loss of conscious control have him scared shitless. Unfortunately, sleep has the upper hand.

            He tries to stay awake by reciting the lyrics to a Mellancamp song in his head. He passes out somewhere around the second verse.

….

            When he wakes, he panics.

            He’s alone in the room which means Cas left and now he’s on his own and he’s gonna do something he regrets and he’s gonna be alone forever because no one is safe and no one will understand and… Cas is sitting at the table in the corner of the room and maybe Dean wasn’t as thorough with his search as he should have been.

            He falls back against the pillow, wondering how he moved from the floor to the bed through his deep breaths of relief.

            “How’d you sleep?” Cas asks from the table, now facing Dean.

            Dean sifts through the nightmares he can remember from his unconsciousness, not settling too long on any one to maintain some emotional distance. “Like a baby,” he growls.

            Cas sighs and his gaze moves to study the deep swirls of green in the motel art on the wall nearest him. “You’re lying.”          

            Dean sits up straight and throws his legs off the side of the bed, “Were you spying on my dreams?” He tries to make the accusation angry but his voice comes out shaky and gives him away, the fear of someone else witnessing his darkest times with him making his blood run cold. Talking about it was one thing, but _seeing it…_

            “Didn’t have to. I didn’t know someone could thrash around that much and still stay unconscious.” It sounds kind of like a joke, but Cas’ delivery is off as always and Dean is too angry and distracted to laugh.

            He wants to give Cas the silent treatment, ignore him and everything that occurred the day before, but there’s a question itching at his brain that refuses to stay quiet.

            All of the roughness and emotion is out of his voice when he asks it. “How did you know?”

            He’s thankful when he sees recognition light Cas’ eyes, he’s not prepared to provide further specification.

            “I pulled you from Hell, Dean. It would have been difficult to do so without witnessing a few of your… indiscretions.”

            So he had seen the real monster, as he’d feared. Dean at his absolute worst. It raised an important question: If Castiel had seen the demon in him, the unsalvageable beast, _why the fuck is he topside and not serving out his fate?_

            He wants to believe Cas has faith in him, faith that he deserves. But he knows it’s wrong, he knows Cas is capable of mistakes and shitty judgment calls just like anyone else, he had enough anecdotal proof of that.

            The way he sees it, he has two choices. Choice number one: convince Cas of how royally fucked-up and past repair he is and get a one-way ticket back downstairs where he knows he belongs and knows he doesn’t have to pretend. Choice number two: pretend he’s okay, pretend he doesn’t need help (help that he knows Cas will give him but will change nothing), and maybe get a few extra weeks with Sam away from the place he’ll spend eternity. Until Cas realizes the truth.

            He chooses the second one, even if only to stave off the boredom that’s sure to come in Hell. Plus, who knows if he’ll get his handy-dandy spot as torturer back straight away without have to do his time _on_ the rack. At least this way he might be able to prepare Sam in any way he can, make sure he’ll live his own life once he’s gone and not hold onto the brother who he shouldn’t hold onto.

            It’s not like it’ll be hard, ignoring self-hatred and keeping it from his family has pretty much become his middle name.

            And he had to start sometime. So even though he’s craving to get back to that place where he can claw and slice, he knows he’ll be there soon and that sates him a bit.

            It’s still tough to heave himself up off the bed to stand and he has to flex his shoulder for it to slide fully back into place. He feels kind of disconnected from the pain, like it should hurt more than it does. Of course, it’s easy for him to think of comparisons that make a sprained shoulder seem like a hug.

            “I’m taking a shower,” he practically grunts, and he doesn’t even look behind him to see if Cas nods or reacts. His voice came out a little gruffer than he’d meant it but he ignores it and locks the bathroom door behind him.

            If the water’s hot enough to scald his skin, he doesn’t notice, and he appreciates the brief respite from the coolness of fresh air he’s lived in but somehow managed to become to foreign.

            When he trudges out of the tiny bathroom, a puff of steam punctuating his exit, he has a plan in mind, a sort of handle on things.

            He can be normal if it means it’s only for a little while, if it means these fantasies of fileted body parts will be carried out soon enough.

            Cas’ eyes are stuck to him like magnets and they widen when Dean proclaims “I want to see Sam.” But Cas doesn’t disagree or try to talk him out of it. He probably has some sort of romantic view that has Dean up on a pedestal where he’s strong enough to overcome anything. _Wonder if he’d think that if he knew how badly I want to grab his hair and yank it as hard as I can, until clumps come out and tears wet his face._ Maybe then he’d understand just how stable he is and just how much he doesn’t have to lose anymore.

            Still, when Dean unlocks the door to his room, when he darts his eyes back and forth, looking for any threats (or victims for that matter) he’s sweating like a fucking pig.

            When he knocks on Sam’s door and prays he’s out, he hears movement inside and hopes that Cas beside him will be enough to stop him if the monster somehow gets free in Sam’s direction.

            He manages to keep his cocky grin in place, but he can feel that is doesn’t reach his eyes, a detail that he’s sure will not go unnoticed by Sam.

            “Ready to get on the road, Sammy?” Sam’s face brightens a bit, at that, but Dean notes how he looks back at Cas before his mouth eventually tips into a small smile.

            “So… You’re okay?”

            Before Cas can interject like he knows he’s going to, Dean lies through his teeth: “Good as new!” He knows they both know it’s a lie, but he can keep it together for a while until they’ve started to believe it and they’re ready.

            “Dean…” Cas is protesting, _shocker there._ Dean turns and gives him a look that’s on the line of pleading, and he hates how his spine gets chills by turning his back to Sam.

            “Just give me a chance to get back on the horse. Wallowing in self-guilt and pity won’t do me any good.” He’d pulled _that_ straight out of his ass, but he can already see both Cas and Sam nodding in agreement in response to his words. He knows he’s won. Now all they have to do is quickly pack up and they’ll be on their way.

            He claims he’s tired as he slides into the backseat of the impala, delegating Sam to drive. Really he just can’t stand the thought of someone behind him in the backseat.

            He relaxes a little when Sam starts babbling about a possible case in New Mexico, and Dean finds it easy to start daydreaming and planning how to leave Sam in good shape. He realizes his two options. The simplest would be to just off himself, he’s damn sure that heaven won’t have him, but he can’t justify just disappearing or Sam finding the body. The plan he likes is the one requiring him to do something pretty heinous (or at least plan to) before Cas’ll even consider giving him a one-way ride downtown. It would sure-as-shit help if all the cross-road demons weren’t banned from dealing to the Winchesters. Planning said heinous act calms him until he’s content in the back.

            Although it’s kind of hard to enjoy imagining cracking skulls when you’ve got ice-blue, unblinking eyes staring at you in the rearview mirror.

…

            It’s not like they aren’t watching him, he feels a pair of eyes on him round-the-clock. He can’t even take a leak without someone asking where he’s going. He can handle it though, it’s not like it’s permanent.

            What he really wants to do, no matter how much he feels like a sixteen-year-old girl for even thinking it, is leave Sam a note. He can’t tell him his plans now, can’t tell him to let him rot with all the other demons, hell, he can’t even tell him to lighten up and get laid every once and awhile, not without tipping them off. So it’s gotta be a letter.

            The problem is, he can’t find a goddamn minute alone! And he can’t exactly take a stationary set with him to the john without raising suspicion when Cas’ pupils burn into the back of his neck if he so much as moves an inch.

            So he bides his time.

            And he bides his time.

            And Cas doesn’t stop watching him. He considers writing his farewell note on toilet paper.

            When they’re in Texas, a shabby little run-down town somewhere south of Dallas, he gets lucky. Finally. It doesn’t come a moment too soon as he nearly shot an innocent bystander that got on his nerves on the case before.

            He’s cracking his neck while he takes a piss in the town’s poor excuse for a police station when his eyes catch on the flyer above the urinal advertising a fundraising barbecue.

            Sweat breaks out on the back of his neck while he tucks himself back into his pants and he carefully tears the flimsy, God-sent paper from the staples in the wall. The back is blank, as he’d hoped.

            The pen from his jacket pocket is a lot heavier in his hand than he remembers it being as it sits ready, raised above the paper now pressed against the wall.

            Every one of those goddamn words have left his head, those words that he’s planned and recited for weeks, only to disappear when he finally, actually needs them.

            That frustration he’s been harboring, paired with the white-hot hatred has him punching the wall. Hard. Each blow has his knuckles reddening and his heart beating faster, gaining the violence-induced adrenaline he’s been craving so desperately.

            He’s sure his pounding can be heard on the other side of the wall, and that tiny, logical thought is the only thing that pushes him, allows him to stop.

            Then he’s faced with that blank page again. That teasing, previously gorgeous, blank sheet of paper that now just stares back, mocking him. _It doesn’t have to be perfect, you pussy, just has to explain things._ He has to repeat this mantra in his head an upwards of a hundred times before he’s writing, not really sure of what his pen is scratching out.

**Sammy-**

**So I guess if you’re reading this, it happened, or it’s about to – whatever, that part’s not important. I hope it’s obvious that this is what I want.**

**I don’t belong here, Sammy. I don’t really think I’m human anymore. I know it’s only a matter of time before I’m one of the monsters you have to hunt down, and I don’t wanna put you through that. You’re pretty much the last thing--person I care about hurting.**

**I think we’ve had enough good times over the years that you’ll be able to remember me as your awesome big brother, and forget everything else.**

**If it’s easier, forget me all together.**

**Because, Sammy, and I’m telling you the end-all, be-all truth here, I want you to leave me down there. No deals, no coming to see me, no matter what happens.**

**I’m where I belong, and you’re where you belong. I tried living a normal life for you, I expect you to do the same.**

**I mean it.**

**Love ya, kid.**

**Dean**

**P.S. You’ve heard it before, and I’ll say it again: Find a girl, one that makes you laugh, and get laid for once, would ya?**

            When he reads it over in his head, it’s actually not that bad, but he knows Sam’ll be pissed no matter what he writes.

            A glance at his watch tells him he’s been in this bathroom for twenty minutes too long, and he formulates excuses in his head. The flier gets folded up – his writing facing out – and is placed in the pocket with his phone, ready to slip into Sam’s duffel when the moment comes.

            His jacket’s long enough to hide his knuckles mostly, so he takes a deep breath and pulls the heavy door that leads into the hallway, ready to see those piercing eyes waiting for him.

            Cas isn’t there.

…

            It’s unnerving, not having his every move watched. So unnerving that he finds himself searching for the angel, or his brother.

            He starts to panic when they’re not out in the waiting room or in any interrogation rooms, and Sam’s not answering his cell phone.

            When he gets to the parking lot, and sees the impala there, empty, he starts theorizing; _Were they taken? Did the police have a new crime scene and they rode along with them? What if he decides to hurt someone and Cas isn’t there to stop him?_

He has a sneaking suspicion that they’ve figured out his motives, that they know how broken he is, more soulless than Sam ever was, and that, instead of dealing with him, they’ve left him alone to his own devices.

            His breath is heaving from his chest as he turns the ignition in the impala, suddenly needing to make sure Sam’s belongings are still at their motel room. He can’t freak out or make any plans until he’s _certain._

            He almost can’t get the card key in the slider when he gets there, so afraid of what’s behind the door that his hands are shaking. When he finally pushes the damn door open, he’s planted to his spot, his hand gripping the door handle sharply.

            Cas is sitting on the bed, looking serenely at the TV. on the dresser. His eyes don’t even shift to take in Dean’s form in the doorway.

            Sam’s duffel is right where he left it this morning, and, as if on cue, the bathroom door opens to reveal a freshly-showered Sam ruffling a towel through his wet hair. His eyes widen when he sees Dean, but only for a moment.

            “Oh, hey. We walked back, obviously. I needed a shower after rummaging through that poor guy’s remains, and you had the keys.”

            He says it so normally, as if his actions haven’t nearly stopped Dean’s heart altogether, as if that familiar rage isn’t begging him to hurl himself across the room at his cheerful brother.

            Without a word, he replaces the door in its frame and returns to sit in his car, where he waits for his breathing to slow and his nostrils to stop flaring. He finally no longer feels the urge to attack someone, at least, no much more than usual, so he ventures back into the room, ignoring Sam’s questioning look when he gets there.

            It’s not until he’s on his bed, stretched out on his back on the mattress right next to Cas’ still form that he begins to relax, and incidentally, he realizes how stupid he is.

            If Sam and Cas had indeed been gone, all of his problems would have been solved. He could kill himself, Sam wouldn’t be there to find his body, and Cas wouldn’t be there to stop him.

            Yet that stupid, still-human part of him had reared its innocent head.

            He doesn’t want to think about what this means, so he asks Cas what he’s been wondering instead.

            “So? No more watching my every move?”

Cas doesn’t answer, and Dean could swear he sees him roll his eyes.

            “Hmm? You awake, Cassie?”

            “I just don’t feel you need to be watched.” Whatever _that_ means. He waits and Cas continues after chuckling at the TV, “This television program, however, very dearly needs to be watched. It’s hilarious.”

            Dean glances at the screen for the first time and recognizes the black-and-white coloring and the actors to be from an _I Love Lucy_ rerun. He can’t help snorting at that before he shakes his head at the angel and rolls over to sleep, no matter that it _is_ only four in the afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I finally updated, I know. I typed this one pretty quick and and didn't have a lot of time to go over it so I hope there's not too many typos. Anyways, let me know what you guys think!


	7. Chapter 7

            Opportunities are funny things. A lot of the time, you spend so much time waiting for a certain situation to present itself, planning out everything you’ll do and accomplish when it finally does. All that planning and waiting makes you so ready, so organized, but then when you finally get your chance, it’s so easy to get caught up and let the chance pass by after everything.

            You hope to see your favorite celebrity one day, but when you finally do, you’re too scared to go up and interrupt their day, despite the script you’ve had written out in your head for this particular moment for months now.

            You’ve got the opportunity to buy your dream car, but when the chance arrives, you’d rather spend the money on the new house for the family you’ve just started building.

            Taking the chance you’ve waited so long for isn’t always as simple as you’ve expected it to be. And this is what Dean’s thinking as he eyes the blonde sitting two tables over, his opportunity staring him in the face, his options obvious.

            It’d been almost two months since his first episode when he decided it was time. Rather, he was tired of gritting his teeth, jumping at every loud noise, and feeling like his muscles were straining to stay attached to his bones.

            He’d foregone planning it out because there were too many possible variables. The only thing he was banking on was getting someone to put on a table with some tools nearby and if Cas were to stop him before things got too far, nothing much would change, except maybe an innocent person might be saved. Either way, afterwards, it should be easy to convince the angel where he belongs.

            Ever since the day in Texas when he’d found the note, Cas had loosened the reigns substantially, and he’d been trying not to think too hard about how scared he was that Cas might not stop him.

            So when it’d been months since Dean had even _mentioned_ a bar - all draw of dives gone when you’ve got the uncleanliness of your soul on your mind, he tried to sound enthusiastic when he asked Sam and Cas to hit up a karaoke bar they’d passed on their way into town. Heck, he thought it might even be fun to try and get Cas onstage. He figured he deserved to try, it being his last day on Earth and everything.

            It was actually a lot easier than he expected to get them to agree. He suspected they saw it at as a sign of him finally getting back to his normal self – and, by God, he knew they were _all_ for that. He couldn’t help feeling guilty when unadulterated joy lit Sam’s eyes at the suggestion.

            His chest hurt at how quickly Sam shrugged into his jacket.

            “Five bucks says Dean sings ACDC at some point!” He’d thrown Cas’ way, Cas showing no acceptance or refusal to the bet.

            Dean had ignored the twitching at the edge of his mouth when he smiled and fired back, “Come on, Sammy. We all know you’ll be singing Britney Spears long before I’m drunk enough.”

            Sam had snorted and tossed Dean the keys from the worn dresser next to him before his face had fallen almost infinitesimally and he’d backtracked, “Or I could drive…”

            It hadn’t occurred to Dean that it might be his last chance to drive his baby, so he ignored the voice in the back of his head reminding him how vulnerable it’d make him and put a smile back on Sam’s face: “Oh, I’m driving.” He didn’t even have to fake his own smile in return.

            When Sam went out to the parking lot, Dean finally realized that Cas had barely moved from his spot at the table. A drop of sweat formed at his hairline, threatening to drip down his forehead.

            He was hesitant with his next words: “You… You coming, Cas?” He held his breath as he waited for an answer, for _the_ answer.

            “Would you like me to?”

            The question was serious, even less nonchalant than was normal for the angel, so Dean had stopped to make sure of the right answer.

            “Please.” It came out more like a question, and if Dean hadn’t been so desperate than he’d have been ashamed of his meekness.

            “Alright,” had been the answer, and Dean followed Cas out the door to the waiting car, after he’s slipped a certain piece of paper into the outer pocket of Sam’s duffel bag.

            So that’s how he ended up in this bar and his opportunity had arose. He knows Sam will think nothing of him picking up a hot girl here, and if anything, it will just make Sam think him healed. And Cas next to Sam doesn’t seem to suspect a single thing when Dean’s eyes keep dragging back to glance at the girl.

            All of his ducks are in a row, and yet, he finds it really hard to leave the two men sitting across from him, their very presence symbolizing his success and everything he loves in this world. It hurts knowing that the smile Sam’s wearing now might not be there much longer.

            He’s completely peeled the labels off of the two beers he’s had, relishing the time he has left and stalling a little, admittedly.

            When he can’t justify waiting any longer, and he’s eager to let his fingers do something more destructive like they are longing to, he downs the last swig of his beer and slams it down on the table, plastering a smirk on his face.

            “If you boys’ll excuse me, I’ve got a girl to hit on.” His eyes take their time lingering on Sam, taking in the last glimpse of his brother he thinks he’ll ever get, if things go to plan.

            He sticks his feet under him and forces them to move, taking him away from the table and his life and towards the girl and his death. _Morbid, much?_ he thinks. But then again, the situation is pretty much as morbid as it gets.

            When he gets to the blonde, he doesn’t even really try, he just asks her what she’s drinking and she’s already batting her eyelashes at him. Errantly, he wonders if she’s got a mom who’ll cry and scream when she hears of her daughter’s death or a sister who will have the same brown eyes of her sibling staring back at and reminding her in the mirror for the rest of her life.

            To combat the guilt that’s starting to mount, he thinks instead of how pretty those eyes are going to be rimmed with tears and bloodshot from stress.

            When he leans in and whispers a short request into her ear, she nods when he lifts her head, and he follows her towards the exit. Before following her through the door, he turns to look back at their table, finding both Sam and Cas watching him, Cas without emotion and Sam with disbelief. As a last second decision, Dean salutes cockily, letting an amused smile shine towards them both before he spins on his feet and trudges out the doorway.

            Once he gets her in the car, everything gets pretty simple. He stops making idle chitchat and the hairs on the back of his neck start to stand up as he can feel her getting more and more nervous in the passenger seat next to him with his silence. He keeps his speed high so she doesn’t decide to tuck-and-roll, and by the time they get to an abandoned warehouse ten minutes away, she’s looking at him like the monster he is. He hasn’t said a thing since turning the ignition.

            When he turns the car off and turns in his seat to face her, the sight is fucking thrilling. Her eyes are wide with fear, some dark makeup smudged on the bottom from tears she’ just started crying. Her seatbelt’s off and her hand’s on the door handle, ready to spook at the slightest quick movement.

            He finally pays attention to what she’s been babbling about, ready to turn himself over to the predator he’s been suppressing. “What are you doing?” she pleads, her voice shrill and shaky. When he doesn’t reply, simply stares at her, she speaks again: “Don’t hurt me, I’ll… I’ll do anything.”

            Dean just snorts at that, as if he had a choice, now that the monster’s been set loose and it’s simply dragging out the fun it’s just beginning to have.

            She flinches and yelps when he lunges across the bench seat, his hands easily becoming restraints around her pale, fragile wrists. He pulls her across the seat, opens the door, and gathers both of her hands in one of his, using the other to pull out the knife he stashed in the back of his pants earlier. Warning her of screaming, he puts it to her neck as he guides her towards the back of the Impala, where he quickly opens the trunk and seeks out a sturdy length of rope, as the tears as the tears run more freely down her face and she whimpers.

            He turns her around, away from the trunk, and removed the knife, “Don’t think about running or screaming. I’ve got plenty of guns here and I doubt anyone would hear you out here anyway.” It’s funny how easy it is to get back into the mindset he’s been holding off for so long. His voice is gravelly and deep with the threat, the feeling of it in his throat has him shivering, eager.

            He’s got her hands tied behind her back swiftly with practiced movements, tightening the ropes whenever she makes a noise louder than a whisper. He quickly loads up a duffel with everything he needs, keeping one hand on her bound wrists, and when he slams the trunk shut, she jumps about six inches off the ground with the sound.

            He pushes her towards the entrance of the building, now with a gun in her back and menace on his lips. When they’re inside, she sobs loudly, the dark room daunting and with only visible escape the one they just entered through.

            There’s numerous posts and pillars throughout the structure, so Dean picks one nearby and heaves her that way, securing her to the pole as she whimpers and begs incoherently. His hands feel almost like they’re pulsing as he gets closer to the main event, relishing the power they harbor that is so easily released in this format.

            He finds a rag in his bag, shoving it into her mouth so he has a chance to think and plan this so he can get the most out of it. He’s tempted to leave her vocal so he can hear the begging and screaming he’s become so accustomed to with this job, but he’s willing to sacrifice it, just this once. He’s spoken less than thirty words to her since they’ve left the bar, and he has to admit, the simplicity that the silence evokes kind of gives him a high that’s different than he’s used to, even with her heavy breathing, and gagging against the rag.

            He lays the contents of his bag out for display, watching her eyes react and widen with each new addition of blade or weapon. She’s groaning behind the fabric, trying to speak, and Dean imagines it a melodic humming as he preps his instruments.

            His first line of business is an unassuming pair of pliers, small and conservative. The girl writhes against the pole as he approaches her, and when he moves around behind her to get to her hands, her groaning gets louder and he can tell that she’s trying to scream. He’s got his plier’s poised next to one of her thumbs, ready to tear the first fingernail off. He closes his eyes, reveling in the moment, letting go of all the inhibitions that humanity reminded him of, focusing solely on the pleasures he learned after being a victim for far too long. His breathing is deep and calming, and the moment is so serene, so tranquil, he lets it drag on until the novelty passes.

            Before the newness fades away, though, it’s interrupted. Interrupted by a throat-clearing. The sound takes Dean by surprise, and his eyes fly open and he’s across the floor before he’s taken a breath, his hands ready for combat and the pliers still clattering on the cement. Cas simply stares back at him from his spot against the wall, where he leans, looking completely relaxed.

            “What are you doing here?!” Dean shouts, stuck between wanting to turn his masochism towards the angel and being too surprised to get his bearings. “Cas…” he huffs out a breath, “you shouldn’t be here!”

            He knows, when he was planning it, he’d hoped for this outcome, for Cas to stop him. But now, with the thought of blood on his hands so close and in his reach, he can’t quite remember why.

            “What exactly are you doing, here, Dean?” Cas is so calm, and almost looks bored as he asks the question. Dean quickly wonders if Cas has gone blind recently or if what he’d been about to do is all in his head. He has to look around the room, make sure it’s all still there. When his eyes fall on the girl, those big brown eyes, pleading through her tears, he knows it’s real. And he remembers the sister she might have, crying tears out of grief instead of fear. He drags his gaze back to Cas’ and the angel doesn’t look judgmental or disgusted, just curious. He waits for Castiel to speak, but when he doesn’t, Dean is forced to instead.

            “I… thought it was pretty obvious.” His face fucking _reddens_ at that, embarrassed at getting caught up in the act. It’s so ridiculous he can’t even stand it.

            “Why don’t you explain?” Castiel goads. Then he smiles and adds “humor me,” leaving Dean to wonder where he picked _that_ human phrase up.

            It all sounds fine in his head, but how exactly does he explain it? He knows if he can convince the angel how evil he is, he’ll get what he wants, but now that Cas is staring him in the face and waiting for his explanation, the words are hard to find.

            He’s sure a whole minute’s gone by before he clears his throat and gives it a try. “I, well, I was gonna…” it’s harder than he thought. Might as well cut to the chase. “You know I don’t belong here, Cas.”

            “Belong where?”

            “On Earth.”

            The angel’s face is finally showing some emotion, his mouth has fallen open and he blinks a few times before he’s composed. “Then where _do_ you belong?”

            Dean tries to make his voice deep and forceful when he answers, but it still comes out kind of like a question, “Hell.”

            Cas’ questions start firing back, now, getting to the root of it, and Dean lets him, wanting to get it all over and on with.

“Why do you belong in Hell?”

“Because of what I’ve done.”

“What have you done?”

“Hurt people.”

“On Earth or in Hell?”

“Hell. But I’ll do it up here, too. I know it.”

“What do you suggest?”                       

“Put me down there so I can’t.”                 

“You want to be there?”

“I just don’t wanna hurt anybody. Especially Sammy.”

“So you would’ve hurt this woman? Even though you just told me you didn’t want to hurt anyone?” Cas asks this slowly, pronouncing each word clearly and loudly.

“Well I want to-but… but it’s hard to explain Cas! If I don’t do it now, it’ll happen eventually.” His voice has gone shrill and it actually breaks on the last word. Everything he’s said is so obvious and he can’t believe that Cas doesn’t see it.

Castiel doesn’t answer. He pushes off of the brick wall and walks slowly across the room, stopping next to the woman, who looks at him with hope. When Cas starts to untie her hands, Dean speaks up, “What are you doing?!” He takes a few steps towards them before a sharp look from Cas stills him.

“I’m setting her free,” Cas says without inflection, and once she’s unrestrained he discreetly touches a finger to her temple before she runs from the building, almost running into Dean on her way out. The only thing that keeps him from interfering are Cas’ eyes, daring him to do anything against his will. “She won’t remember.”

He’s angry, his blood boiling in his head, but Cas looks like a force to be reckoned with and he’s still hoping the angel will do what he’s asked. He curbs his shaking arms by holding them closely to his sides. He’s not going to speak first this time, and the silence drags on, long after the girl’s footsteps have stopped echoing off the walls.

“You wouldn’t have hurt her.”

He’s not going to answer that, he knows he would have.

“You wouldn’t have hurt her. Even if you tried, I would have stopped you.” Cas is staring at him, making his words irrefutable. “I’m not letting you give up because you’ve decided it’s too hard.” And with that, without waiting for Dean to find his voice and contest his claims, Cas disappears with the sound of feathers rustling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you guys know, I'm about to start work and school again so I probably won't be able to update for awhile (not that I'm super quick at it in the first place). Anyway, tell me what you guys think! Nothing gets me writing like reviews making me feel undeniably guilty. Hope you guys are enjoying it!


End file.
